


honey, don't feed me

by locheia



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: /, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Biphobia, F/F, Hurt No Comfort, Lesbophobia, Not Beta Read, depends how you hc them :), listen... they're girlfriends and in love and it's true because i said so, no happy ending, these hands put you to sleep in many ways, wlw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26202253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/locheia/pseuds/locheia
Summary: the greatest tragedy is knowing that i will love you and lose you and that there is nothing i can do to stop it. the gift is knowing that you will forgive me for it all.A simple, short drabble about Abigail, Marissa and their hopeless love.
Relationships: Abigail Hobbs/Marissa Schurr
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	honey, don't feed me

For a moment, Abigail fantasies that her mouth is knife point sharp.  
She imagines pressing it to Marissa’s neck and pulling back to watch the blood spill out over her hands - the wound brought about with love, the kiss that seals death. Marissa is already caught on the hook of Abigail’s fishing rod, death already assured - so all it is, all it ever has been, is the simple matter of reeling in the prey. Marissa could gasp and twist and shudder in Abigail’s arms (not the way she wants, not the way she imagined Marissa gasping in the dark of night, not the way it ought to be) and die staring into the eyes of the girl who loves her. A mercy killing, compared to what Abigail knows in is store for her.

“What are you looking at?”

Abigail’s gaze jumps from Marissa’s neck to her eyes, so wide and bright. Her voice is teasing, just a hint of curiosity to it.

“Nothing.”

Marissa is ever curious. Which cigarettes burn her throat best? Which drugs take her the highest? Which of Abigail’s kisses tastes the sweetest? She wants to know it all. She is yet to ask the unanswerable though - what is it that Abigail does after school, when she refuses to let Marissa come home with her? It’s a small mercy that the words have yet to spill over her lips and become real, a serious question, one Abigail could never honestly reply to without losing her forever. A small mercy, though. The peace won’t last forever. Her father will find out, or worse, find Marissa all by himself. He will force Abigail’s hand, knowingly or not. She must choose, will always be forced to choose. Her life or her love?

“Then kiss me again.”

Marissa’s mouth is soft and pliant against her own. For all their appearances and behaviour, Abigail leads in this relationship and Marissa happily yields. That’s the way it’s always been - in more ways than one. The lover leading her woman to the bed. The butcher leading the beast to the slaughter. Abigail is both and it sickens her, the way she can kiss Marissa now and darkly entertain the way she will taste later. Not like peach lipgloss or smoke, but like salt and blood, Abigail tearing the flesh apart between her canines at a polite family dinner. Her father will smile at her, knowing that which her mother does not.

“One more, 'Rissa, one more.”

She is breathless and she is flushed and she- she will take her girlfriend apart too, won’t she? Split the skin from the muscle, the muscle from the bone, all the while Marissa will stare back, blue eyes misted over but even in death, horribly betrayed. The kiss tastes sour now. There is no happy ending for them, not that there ever could be, Abigail’s father with a gun, Marissa’s mother howling in disgust - for what she is is as much as a sin as what she does. All of it is sour.

“I love you.”

The words startle her. Her body stills a moment and no words spring from her lips. How could they? There is no language in which she could explain why that is such a terrible thing, no language that could explain Abigail’s crimes, not even the secret verse only they share. Speech fails her, but her hands do not, pushing Marissa down onto the ground (she will do this again, only Marissa will not be so pliant, will not smile at the feel of Abigail’s palms pressed to her) and kisses her on the mouth. And again. And again. She kisses lower, the corner of Marissa’s smile, the edge of her face, the crook of her neck. She works down until she presses her mouth to Marissa’s jugular. The knife is in her pocket. Would it not be love to save her?  
The truth is yes, it would be.  
For Marissa’s future is soaked in ichor and tears and wrapped in deer velvet, unforgiving and unyielding, looming over the edge of the next few weeks. But Abigail cannot bring herself to end the one good thing she has in her life, not until she must. These hands on her waist are warm and yes, one day, they will be cold and severed and served for dinner, but right here, today, they are warm. The body beneath her loves her. Will always love her until she gives it a reason to despise her. Something in her knows that Marissa will still love her in death - would forgive, shall always forgive her for any crime she commits. She could slit her lover’s neck here and now, and nothing would change between them but states of being.  
Perhaps the peace will not last. But Abigail has a little of it for now.

“I love you too.”


End file.
